


Honey and Cloves

by Hedgi



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mostly cute and fluffy, but some bittersweet, reaction fic, talking about families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 06:39:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6693478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedgi/pseuds/Hedgi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin Stein made a promise to those refugee children, and healing stab wound or not, he's going to keep it. In these dark nights, everyone could use a little bit of Light, even if it's only the honeyed treats his grandmother taught him to make, and now he can finally pass on her recipe.</p><p>Reaction fic to last night's episode, only lightly spoilery</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey and Cloves

Martin led Jax down the corridor and into the Waverider’s rather cramped galley, then started setting out pots and pans and neatly labeled jars.

“Uh, Grey, you’re still hurt, really, should you be doing this?” Jax tried. He had been trying to dissuade the old man for five minutes, but Martin was on a mission.

“I assure you, I am quite healed. I’m sure you can feel that for yourself. But this is important. We made a promise, and I intend to honor it.” Martin began cracking eggs into a large bowl. Jax wasn’t sure how Gideon got them eggs, but now wasn’t they time to question that, they’d been eating breakfast together for weeks now.

“Uh, ok. Um, wait, what promise? We saved everyone, we did that much.” Jax added a silent _for now_ , because he wasn’t sure he trusted the Brig to hold Savage for long, and anyway, his army was still marching and so many were dead. This was all that was left.  Part of him wanted to curl up and cry, at the utter devastation. There wasn’t time for that, of course.

“We promised to bring the children sweets.” Martin Stein said, stirring in salt and baking powder. “So I am. We’re stuck here for some time anyway. Packets of rations and things like that are nice, but—well, my mother always said, getting something home-made, hand-made, that showed love. More than a token. Grease that baking sheet, if you would.”

Jax obliged, and passed Martin the flour he needed before the old man reached for it himself. He smiled warmly. “Thank you, Jefferson. It’s been some time since I made this.”

“What is it, exactly?” Jax looked at the rest of the things set out, large jars of amber honey, ginger roots, walnuts just out of the shell.

“Something my grandmother Ida taught me,” Martin said, rolling out the dough into rops and twisting them in on themselves. “My mother’s mother. She was from Russia, you know. Moved to America with her family sometime around 1906, just before—well. She’s the one who taught me to read. Took me to libraries, told me I could be anything I wanted. Well, not an astronaut, I suppose, but it was the principal of the thing. She survived a great deal, including being told her dreams weren’t worth anything. She never let anyone be nasty about mine, even if no one ever really thought them possible.” He looked over at Jax, who saw the older man’s hands shaking and took up the task of twisting and rolling himself. “She would have liked you, I think.”

“We have a time machine. Maybe someday, I’ll meet her,” Jax said. Martin nodded, a little sadly, and put the tray of little dough balls in the oven, then set to mixing up the sugar and honey with chopped ginger in a pot on the stove. “Or you could meet my G’ma. She would make these-- spiced walnuts at Christmas. Cloves and stuff. I miss those. I never figured out how to make them. I wish I could ask her.”

“Perhaps. Assuming this all goes well, and we are returned to our proper times—our younger selves, that is.” Martin rubbed at his wedding ring, sticky now. He dared not take it off for fear it might vanish as soon as it parted from his skin. Jax felt the same way about his father’s dog-tags, warm against his chest.

“I hope so,” Jax said, watching the honey mixture bubble. “I wish we could do more. Save more. We saved these kids, their folks, but how many more waited for a rescue that never came?”

Martin nodded, starting another batch of dough. “Too many. There are always the unlucky. No less worthy of rescue, simply not in the right place. The only reason my grandmother survived the Pogrom was luck, her shtetl was the last attacked in a string, they had warning. The only reason she didn’t die in the fire—she worked in a factory—was that she managed to get down the fire escape before it broke down under too much weight. We can’t save everyone, as much as we hope to.”

Jax nodded, and rubbed dough-covered hands on his pants. “I hope it’s enough to save my dad. And… a lot of other dads, and moms, and kids.” He could still see all those hopeful faces. The world here was a hell-hole, it might have been their only taste of sugar.

“Here,” Martin pulled the tray from the oven, the dough golden. “We dip them, cook them in this.” He plucked one ball from the tray and plopped it into the syrup, then blew on his fingers. Jax swiped the rest of them into the golden liquid with an oven mitt.

They cooked another batch, this time Martin measuring—or pretending to measure, at any rate—and teaching Jax. He and Clarissa had never had any children, and he had meant to give Caitlin Raymond his recipes, but now—this might be the only person he got to teach. Teaching was power, the best, most beautiful power there was, next to love, Grandmother Ida had always told him _.  Libe eninim ruv_ ,  she would say, _es iz libe in lernen._ He had taken that lesson to heart.

At last, they finished, and Martin began putting to golden treat into boxes, then a basket. He took several jars of jellies as well, and anything else Gideon provided, calorie bars and the like. Thus loaded down, he and Jax made their way out of the Waverider.

“So what are these things?” Jax asked as he handed one to a girl no older than five, all frizzed hair and freckled cheeks. Hony dripped down her chapped lips, and she grinned wide, wrapping her arms around first Jax, then Martin, before racing off to chair the bite with her mother, or perhaps an elder sister.

“It’s a form of _Teiglach_ , Grandmother always called it _chremsel._ Mostly meant for Rosh Hashanah or other celebrations, a way to bring some sweetness to the new year. I think these little ones, and whatever comes next, need all the sweetening possible.”

“Yeah,” Jax finished handing out the food in his baskets, jars of preserves to grateful parents. “I get that. My G’ma, dad’s mom, she used to say the same things. She died when I was little, though.”

“It isn’t easy, losing those you love, those who are a part of you,” Martin said, passing a jar of jam into a dirt smudged father’s hand and smiling at the child he carried, a young boy. “Here.”

“Bless you, thank you,” the father said, the child’s mouth full, eyes bright.

There were so many to feed, so many to save, but this was a start. Jax licked a bead of honey from his finger, and settled back with the others, watching Ray tell a bunch of small children the plot of some obscure fantasy novel, and Kendra offer a fallen hawk feather to a young girl with sad eyes.

Martin passed him the last of the _Teiglach_ , and though Jax knew it couldn’t, he thought it tasted just a bit like cloves.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I did do some research for Jewish-specific treats and many sites said that while it's typically just for holidays (Rosh Hashanah usually) Teiglach isn't limited to only that. Still, I am not Jewish, so if I have erred, please correct me, and I do sincerely apologize.
> 
> Stein's Grandmother Ida is named in honor of several survivors (and victims) of the Triangle Shirtwaist factory fire.


End file.
